


Bad Things Happen to Killian Jones

by unholy_this



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Blood, Implied Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan, for now we have, okay the tags and warnings are gonna be updated according to each new chapter, possible claustrophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-14 14:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unholy_this/pseuds/unholy_this
Summary: A place to cross-post all the fics for my Bad Things Happen Bingo Card I'm writing on Tumblr. Each chapter will have its own rating and will have it mentioned on its title.Current tropes completed: Buried Alive.





	1. Buried Alive (T)

**Author's Note:**

> Yoooo what's up? Let's hope I won't abandon this like I did with Whumptober! Heh heh.
> 
> Anyway, making a note here that this first chapter, as implied by the title, may give off claustrophobic vibes. I didn't get any while writing or reading this, but I'm not claustrophobic, so... fair warning.

Something was wrong.

Killian was lying on something hard and the air smelled damp and musty. He tried to move his legs, only to for them to collide with something hard on the sides. He kicked up and was met with the same obstacle.

Feeling his panic rise up, he pushed his eyes to open.

He couldn’t see anything.

He started breathing faster as he raised his arms, touching a wooden surface a few inches above his body and face. He knocked on it with his hand and hook, but the dullness of the sound and the lack of echo around confirmed his fear.

He was buried alive.

“No...” he said softly. It couldn’t be. Who would... Why would they...

He kept knocking on the wooden plank above him, desperately hoping it would attract attention.

“Help!” he shouted. “Someone! Can anyone hear me?” He was starting to heave, panic rising with every second.

Had something happened? Did they think he was dead? He felt around with his hand... he was wearing his usual shirt and leather vest and coat... and the coffin was too simple to be used for a funeral. At least, from what he’d seen from this world.

“Help!” he shouted again. Someone would hear him. Emma would be searching for him. He let his arms fall on his sides, trying to steady his breathing. He needed to consume as little oxygen as possible, if he wanted to survive until they found him.

_Would_ they find him? In time, at least?

He searched his pockets, and unsurprisingly, but still shockingly, his phone was missing.

He had to try to control his breathing again, before his panic consumed him completely.

This was Storybrooke, after all. Danger was usual to appear... but he didn’t think it would appear in such a gruesome way. Why would someone want to bury him alive, though? All Emma would need to do to get him out of there would be to think of him being transported to her side...

Which is why they must have buried him beyond the town line.

This time he felt his limbs heavy as lead; for a few moments, he couldn’t move, he could barely feel the stale air as it entered his lungs.

Help wasn’t coming. He wasn’t getting out of there.

Despite the utter darkness around him, he felt the need to close his eyes. He felt a few tears squeeze out as his body relaxed against the floor of his wooden prison. He stayed like this for a few moments, until he felt as if the sides were moving inwards, crushing around him. The air was getting heavier, as if it was pushing him down, down below.

He took a deep breath and screamed. He felt as if invisible nails scratched his throat from inside, leaving it sore and hurt.

No. It was not ending like this. He gave himself a few seconds to panic, then tried to concentrate.

_Calm down. Breathe slowly._

At least his arms and feet were free. He had very limited space to move, but it would have to do. He opened his eyes, even though there was no point, and searched the top surface of the coffin with his hand. It was wide enough to fit him, but not enough to hold a lot of soil inside. The wood was lean, scrubbed, but not polished, and he could feel the tiny cracks between the plates.

If he was buried as deep as six feet underground... perhaps, if he moved fast, he could dig upwards and push the dirt inside the coffin while he would reach for the surface. He mustn’t have been in there long, the soil would still be soft... and it would fill the coffin fast.

He gave himself a few moments again, to contemplate where he should make an opening. The safest way would be to use his hook. In such darkness, he couldn’t risk injuring himself on any protruding nails or pieces of wood. And if he cracked the coffin near his feet, he wouldn’t have enough time to turn and get out before the dirt would start filling the coffin.

He sighed, regretting it immediately. He had no idea how much time he had left. He had to make a crack a bit above his head. He needed to avoid getting dirt on his mouth or nose, but at the same time be able to get out fast.

He groaned, dropping his arm to his side. He had the tiniest feeling of dizziness; he had to act and think fast, but there were a lot to do on both lists.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds and made sure his hook was secure in place. He took one final deep breath and opened his eyes. He wrapped his hand around his brace and placed the hook upwards, right above his sternum. He plunged it forward, hearing soil move above him. He hit the wood again with his hook. And again. And again.

Until he heard a crack, and felt specks of dirt fall on his chest.

“Go on, go on,” he whispered as he felt around with his hand. There definitely was a crack there. He stuck the tip on his hook in it and took another deep breath. He had no idea how long it would take him to dig to the surface. But he had to try.

He groaned and dug the hook deeper, then pushed down. The wood cracked and he felt more dirt fall on him, as he desperately slided his hand through the crack. Dirt was flowing in now, more by the second as more of the wood cracked around him, and he screamed as he raised his head to fit through the hole. He felt something scrape against the back of his head, but he kept pushing. He dragged his upper body out with his hands as he pushed against the wood with his feet.

He sat up, already feeling exhausted, his arms protecting his head from the weight of the dirt above. Bloody hell, it was heavy. How was he going to dig that away?

His head dropped, he tried to inhale as much air as he could. It didn’t feel exactly right; he was running out of time. More tears ran from his eyes as he feared dying right there. He’d just fit in around the hole, so the soil wasn’t falling in; instead, it felt like it was pushing from around him, suffocating him.

He groaned again and stretched his arms upward. Dirt fell on his head, still bent downwards to have his nose and mouth free, and he flexed his legs, moving his hip up and back. Still groaning, he managed to bend one leg and sit on his heel. He moved his hand and hook around, but he only managed to throw more dirt on his head. Aside from dirt, he felt something warm and wet run down his neck.

“Come on!” he said and unbent his leg, dragging the other one through the hole and scraping it too against the cracked wood. He dug with his hand and hook and tried to step on the falling dirt around him. He was trying to go up but every step seemed to bring him lower. He grabbed on handfuls of dirt and tried to leverage his body up as he dug his boots in the dirt. The soil was heavy against his arms, and shoulders, and head, but he kept digging.

Until his fingers found no resistance, and felt their tips move through air. He huffed a relieved laugh, but then realized he couldn’t move any further. Dirt was falling around him, his left arm was completely buried and he couldn’t move it, his feet found no stepping places and his head was spinning.

It was then he realized he should have waited and throw as much dirt as possible inside the coffin. He groaned at his stupidity. With what little thought he had, he pushed his hand further outside and tried to grab on the surrounding ground.

At that point he thought he heard something, but he blamed it on the lack of oxygen. He was already seeing spots, even in pitch black darkness.

He screamed when he felt something touch his hand, and he tried to yank it away. He stopped when he realized it was a pair of hands... and then a pair of lips.

“Killian!” he heard muffled above him.

“Emma!” He shouted as loud as he could, grabbing tight on her hand. He heard her shout something unintelligible above him as she started pulling on his hand.

But the soil around was too heavy; he couldn’t move any of his limbs anymore, and the spots in his vision were increasing...

He didn’t know how much time had passed when bright sunlight assaulted his eyes, and he finally breathed in air.

“Killian! Oh my God!”

He felt Emma’s hands all over his face. He coughed hard, feeling dirt in his mouth and nose. “Help,” he whispered.

He could hear someone breathe hard next to him, and then his other arm was free, and two pairs of arms were pulling him out, to safety.

They set him down on the ground, above it finally, and he opened his eyes.

Emma and David were looking at him, panic twisting their features. He could see tears in Emma’s eyes.

He smiled, huffing a laugh. “I’m okay,” he said. “You found me,” he said as he started laughing, a free, long laugh whose volume increased by the second.

“Killian...”

“I’m okay, I’m out,” he said, unable to stop laughing. He could feel tears run from his eyes, his whole body ached, he almost _died_ , why the bloody hell was he laughing? “I can’t... stop,” he struggled to say between bursts.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You panicked, that’s all,” Emma said, touching his face and bringing hers closer. She leaned her forehead on his, and she shook with him as hysteria started taking over.

“My head,” he said, heaving, “I hit it.”

“David, help me pick him up. We have to cross the line.”

David grabbed his arm and pushed him on his feet. Killian struggled to walk, leaning half on David and half on Emma, still laughing hard as tears kept running. “I can’t- I can’t s-stop...”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Emma said, rubbing at his back. “It’s only a few steps ahead.”

He looked forward, and the red line looked so promising as they walked towards it. His feet gave out as soon as they crossed it, and he immediately felt Emma’s magic heal the wound at the back of his head.

He sighed, feeling his laughs subside. He turned to look at Emma with a smile.

“Should we slap him?” David said behind him, and he saw Emma throw him a glare.

“You’re okay? Are you hurt anywhere else?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, completely forgetting the scrape on his leg. His throat constricted; he had the feeling that sobs were following now.

Emma wrapped her arms around him and let him rest his head on her shoulder. “Oh my God. That scared the hell out of me.”

“Try being in there,” he said, wrapping his arms around her as a sob escaped him.

“You dug yourself out, Killian, holy shit,” she said as she run her hand through his hair, seemingly unbothered by the dirt and blood on it.

“Yeah. But- but I got stuck in there. If it weren’t for you...” he said and the sobs came at full force.

“Shh, you’re okay now, you’re safe.”

“We found you,” David said as he placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay.”

He wanted to say so much. He wanted to ask how they knew where to find him, he wanted to thank them, he wanted to turn and hug David too, but the only thing he could do was lean on Emma as the sobs rocked his body.

He’d dug himself out of a coffin, buried six feet underground. He’d say he’d earned a panicked reaction like that.

He let himself be comforted by the touch of his loved ones.

He was going to be okay.


	2. Bleeding Through the Bandages (T)

“Stay still.”

Killian gasped, struggling to not move away or not swat at the doctor’s hands as he wrapped the bandage around his abdomen as quickly and as gently as he could. He tried to concentrate on keeping his back arched against Liam, in order to give the doctor space to move his hands.

“How bad is it?” Liam said behind him.

“The axe went in pretty deep. I’ll have to come back and stitch him up after I bandage the others. Try not to move much.” The look on his face wasn’t encouraging. He then turned to another injured sailor.

Killian grunted softly. “I’ll be right here, mate.” He closed his eyes for a moment and put his hand on the top of the bandages, grateful to feel them still dry.

“Come, Killian, relax. Lie back.”

“Ugh. The doctor said not to move.”

“You _can_ lie down. And considering your injury’s on your front side, it’d be better this way.”

“Wow, brother. Didn’t know you were engaging in medicine,” he said and grunted as Liam helped him lie down on the bed. Hand still on his injury, he looked up at Liam for the first time. He didn’t look that bad, not at all; he was dripping with sweat, and blood was smeared on his face and arms, but no injuries were visible. “Are you alright?”

“Aye. Being the captain, I expected more men to attack me.”

“They didn’t look at your clothes?” Thinking for a bit, Killian smiled. “They thought you couldn’t be the Captain… Who’s little now?”

“Shut up.” Liam put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed softly. “Glad those bastards are locked up now.”

Killian grunted again and turned his eyes to the wall. “Were we supposed to catch them, though?”

“Of course we were. It’s an enemy ship, and we’re on a war.”

“We’re not privateers… and they didn’t attack.”

“They would have. I’m _not_ having this discussion with you.”

Killian huffed. “You’re not discussing your tactics with your lieutenant?”

He could feel Liam’s glare. “Right now you’re my injured little brother. And you’re not rational.”

Killian sighed, cringing in pain as it jostled his wound. He turned to look at Liam. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Liam smiled and opened his mouth to talk, but a crashing sound heard beneath them had him turn his head. They heard people yelling and gunshots being fired.

Liam grabbed his sword, unsheathed it and ran to the door. “Stay here!” he shouted without looking back, closing the door behind him.

Killian grunted, wanting to follow him but unsure how long his bandages would last. He lay still for a few minutes, hearing shouts and yells, and gunshots-

And then Liam screaming.

Killian gasped in horror. It was him, he heard right. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Was he- was he in pain? Was he being attacked?

His rational thinking having flown out the porthole, he jumped from the bed and tried to run to the door. His head swam for a few seconds, vision full of black spots until he saw his sword, thrown precariously at the floor beside the bed. Grunting loudly, he bent over and picked it up, clutching at his bandages with his left hand.

He gasped when he felt something wet under his middle finger. He looked down, only to confirm his fears; he was bleeding through the bandages already.

Holding his sword tightly, he raised his eyes to the door. He could still hear people yelling, and screaming… but no sound from Liam. He took a deep breath and walked to the door.

He opened it and welcomed himself to a gruesome sight; bleeding, gory bodies lay all across the floor. Some were still moving, trying to get away or reach their fallen pistols, but Killian’s crew mates quickly made sure to incapacitate them. His vision finally clearing, he realized most of the injured people were from the enemy ship. But Liam wasn’t there.

Killian heard his characteristic grunt on his left, and without a thought ran towards the sound, ignoring the feeling of more blood covering his palm.

“Liam!” he shouted, tightening the hold on his sword. “I’m coming-”

Another grunt from Liam cut him off, and as he turned to the door to the galley, he saw him stick his sword to a man’s throat. Panting hard, Liam pushed the dead man forward, retrieving his sword. He then looked up at Killian.

Killian missed the worried look on his brother’s face, as his attention was drawn to his body. There was more blood on him now, and a few small injuries on his arms, along with a bleeding nose. He looked up at him and smiled. “You alright?”

“Killian!” he said, walking towards him. “I told you not to- Look out!”

Killian had no time to turn before something blunt connected with his head, causing him to lose his balance and his grip on his sword. Instinctively, he pushed harder against his injury, and the accumulated pain made his head swim again.

He could hear faint noises of fight above him, Liam grunting and breathing hard, but he felt his senses drift away as more and more blood seeped through on his hand.

“Liam…” he whispered weakly. He tried to open his eyes, but he could only see black spots against the wooden floor; he was too worn out to raise his head.

The grunts went silent, and then someone turned him on his back.

Killian grunted in pain when another hand joined his in pushing against the bandage. Liam entered his sight, his face even more bloody and worried.

“Bloody hell! Killian, come on! Stay with me! Mr. Bisset! We need you right here!”

Killian struggled to move his head, turning it down towards his abdomen. He could see his hand, now fully covered with blood, and Liam’s, already stained with his blood as well.

“Come on, come on, little brother, stay with me.”

Killian felt a hand brush through his hair, rubbing softly at his forehead.

“Stay with me.”

* * *

When he woke up next, it was dark outside. He opened his eyes to see a few lanterns lit in the captain’s quarters. He breathed a sigh of relief at realizing he’d made it, and stirred Liam, who was sitting on a chair beside the bed, awake.

“Killian!” he said when he opened his eyes. “How are you feeling, brother?” His hand reached for his hair again, and Killian saw it was still stained with blood.

“Uhh…” was all Killian managed to utter. He was already feeling the clutches of sleep trying to drag him away. He fearfully looked at his belly, now covered with a clean bandage. He could see the blood underneath it, but after touching it with his also still bloody hand, he was relieved to feel it dry.

“Bisset stitched you up. You’d better not move around at all until the wound closes fully.” He reached with his free hand, clutching Killian’s in a fist. “What were you thinking? You were heavily injured, _ordered_ to stay put-”

Killian cut him off with a small whimper. He closed his eyes and brought his other hand to wrap around his brother’s. “You alright?” he said, realizing Liam hadn’t answered him earlier.

“I’m fine, you dolt. I’ve proven myself in a fight, haven’t I?”

“I was… worried,” Killian said, struggling to stay awake. “I heard you scream.”

“Aye, people sometimes shout when they fight, don’t they? You thought I was injured?”

Killian nodded, closing his eyes as tears started to fill them.

“I’m fine; got a few scrapes and a broken nose, but nothing serious. Now rest; you need it. You lost a lot of blood trying to run to my rescue.”

Killian didn’t regret it. The worry alone over Liam’s safety might have killed him where he’d lain. He only wished he didn’t feel the burden over Liam worrying about him.

“Sleep, little brother,” he heard as Liam kissed his forehead, and he finally welcomed his much-needed sleep.


	3. Cry into Chest (T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no actual whump here... just angst and self-loathing.

Killian ran his fingers on the blanket at his lap. It felt so soft, so caring for a little babe, so comforting. The words "baby sailor" along with a small ship were embroidered on its corner, carefully and lovingly put there by Granny.

That woman. Despite her strict and callous appearance, she had such a soft spot for babies that Killian always felt insecure when in her presence. She would start blabbering about how babies need this and that and what's the correct way to do every little thing, and he would stand there feeling completely clueless.

He sighed, letting his head fall back towards the ceiling. His hand found the tumbler on the coffee table beside him and brought it to his lips. He closed his eyes, welcoming the burn.

He knew he should quit drinking, he had numerous incentives to. Supporting Emma. Making sure he'd be sober for any occasion, like a villain attacking suddenly, or the baby coming sooner than planned.

Becoming a good role model.

But it was hard, especially the last one. Emma was being very supportive, knowing everything about his past, both traumas and mistakes, but it still felt almost impossible. How could he overcome all of them, all the thoughts that plagued him and the guilt that weighed him down? How was he supposed to be a good role model when everything in him doubted he could be just that?

He took one more sip of his rum before he put the tumbler back on the table. He covered his eyes with his hand and let the tears flow freely.

It was all a mistake. He shouldn't have- he _couldn't_ have hoped for a happy family, after what he'd been through... and the devastation he had caused.

He was a boy that wasn't wanted by his own father. And he was a man who caused no less than three children to grow up without their fathers... and that was only the ones he'd met.

Why did he trick himself into believing he was worthy of having his own family?

A soft sob escaped him, and immediately after he heard slow steps coming from the stairs. He swallowed hard as he turned towards Emma, hair tousled from sleep, pillow creases on her cheek.

Gods, he didn't deserve her.

She didn't say anything. Her eyes still barely opening, she walked towards the couch and sat next to him. He didn't look at her, though he knew she could see the unshed tears in his eyes. He felt her fingers brush through his hair and he closed his eyes.

"You wanna talk?" she whispered. He simply shook his head, focusing on the movement of her fingers on his scalp, trying to make himself calm down.

She stayed silent, but it took the slightest of tugs for him to lean towards her, letting her guide his head to rest on her chest. The tears in his eyes fell, and he felt them roll on her shirt, leaving wet spots here and there. She didn't seem to mind, and the way she kept massaging his scalp and took his hand in her free one brought more tears. He held tight onto her hand and let himself go, crying and trembling against her as he gave his emotions a few moments to burst out. Emma kept being silent.

After a few moments, she moved to let her back rest against the couch, but guided him so that he could still lean on her. He felt too weak to resist anything, and it was all so comforting. She raised their joined hands and let his rest between hers and her belly. Keeping his eyes closed, he tried to shift his focus away from his sobs and towards the soft kicks under his palm.

Their baby was moving. She's probably the reason Emma woke up and saw that he wasn't next to her. He intertwined his fingers with Emma's as he kept feeling for the soft kicks.

He would be surprised to see that his sobs stopped after a moment if he didn't feel completely wrecked. He only wanted to feel Emma's fingers on his scalp and their daughter moving inside her.

He knew pregnancy was hard on her, and he wished he could help her as much as he could... and instead he was drowning away his sorrows and trying to isolate himself, feeling like she'd be better off without him...

"Shh," Emma said softly, as if reading his mind. "It's gonna be okay."

There were times that he believed her completely. That he thought he could be a good father, that his past wouldn't influence the way he took care of his family.

But he had to be realistic. "How's it gonna be?" he asked in a broken voice, opening his eyes. "How can you trust that I... that I won't snap, or be aggressive, or... or that my past won't haunt me?"

"Your past is what it is," she said. "It made you who you are. The man I love, and do you know who that is?"

He stayed still. He didn't dare look up at her.

"A man who loves with everything he has. I know you'll love her - I know you love her already. And if our adventures together had taught me one thing, it's that no matter what you'll always put us first. And that's what matters."

He closed his eyes as more tears came, silent this time.

"Can you trust my judgement on this?" she asked.

The baby had fallen back asleep, so he turned his hand to hold hers. He nodded simply.

"Can you trust that this will be enough?"

It was more than enough. It was more than he could have ever dreamed of. "Yes."

After a few seconds of silence, he felt her leave a kiss on the top of his head.

"Take your time," she whispered. "It won't change overnight. But we'll be here for each other."

_Gods_...

He opened his eyes and finally turned to look up at her. She still looked sleepy, but she was smiling brightly. He could worship her only for her patience with him.

She leaned down again and kissed his forehead this time. He closed his eyes. He felt so tired, so helpless to show her how much she meant to him. Words, kisses, touches, they would never be enough to convey all his feelings for her.

He'd have to settle with trusting she knew.


	4. Homesickness (T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains mentions of child labour and vague mentions of child abuse.

He always missed home.  
  
He missed their warm hearth, where they would sit together during stormy nights, eating warm, spicy soup and telling stories.  
  
He missed their garden, where their parents would grow vegetables and flowers and healing herbs. Mama was always trying to teach him to memorize each of the latter and what they helped with, but he was too young to remember.  
  
He now thanked his lucky stars - no matter how few they obviously were - that Liam was old enough to remember.  
  
Now there was only a small fire where they'd desperately try to dry their clothes and warm their freezing fingers as they swallowed tasteless hardtack and listened to the sailors sharing bawdy stories of lay and rum.  
  
Now there was only what greens they could buy with their meager savings and what would survive on week-long journeys on a ship.  
  
And as he lay in bed, body shivering with fever and sight blurry, he thought he hadn't missed home more before.  
  
He didn't want Liam to risk their captain's ire every time he took a break to check on him and give him water. He didn't want him to have to add to his already doubled work time.  
  
He wanted Mama. He wanted to sniff her shoulder, feel her warm hand on his forehead, hear her sing to him.  
  
But what he wanted didn't matter. Three years of indentured servitude and the fear of more on the road had taught him so.  
  
Liam was back on deck, and Killian's only comfort was the gentle rocking of the ship and the singing words whose meaning he was too feverish to understand.  
  
_Oh, poor old Stormy's dead and gone_  
_Storm along boys! Storm along John!_

* * *

He heard the door open and close from afar, but startled awake when he felt a cold hand on his forehead.  
  
"Easy, brother. It's me," Liam said calmly. "Your temperature is dropping."  
  
Killian groaned weakly and looked around. "What time is it?"  
  
"Late. Come on, take a sip," he whispered and brought a spoon to Killian's lips.  
  
His sense of taste had weaned significantly since he got sick, and now it suddenly came back with a force. He gulped as Liam's concoction touched his tongue, moving his head away.  
  
"Come on, Killian."  
  
"I'm gonna puke."  
  
"Again? You barely ate anything."  
  
"It's... the taste. It tastes horrible," Killian said even as speaking seemed to use more energy than it should.  
  
"I know. You think I didn't taste it myself? Come on, you've eaten three bowls already."  
  
"Three... bowls of... that?" He could've sworn he'd remember such a foul taste.  
  
"You're getting weak. You need to eat, come on, open your mouth."  
  
Liam eased Killian's lips apart with the spoon and poured the disgusting mix of herbs in his mouth. Too weak to protest or even heave forward and spit it out, Killian swallowed. He made a face, but Liam was relentless, easing his lips apart again.  
  
"You'll pay for this," Killian whispered before he swallowed another sip.

* * *

And pay he did, only he dragged a barely-healed Killian along.  
  
Liam collapsed on the deck, after the countless times Killian begged him to go lie down. Killian knew he'd passed on him whatever it was he had, and he struggled to shake Liam awake in his panic.  
  
"Liam! You got to tell me what herbs you used! Liam!"  
  
But Liam was completely out, leaving Killian clueless as to what to do.  
  
He looked at their small collection of herbs and sighed. At best, he could recreate Liam's soup that - probably - helped him heal faster. At worst...  
  
He looked back at Liam, breathing hard and sweat starting to appear on his forehead, eyes still closed. Could he really risk anything happening to Liam? Could he keep wasting their precious herbs until he found the correct recipe?  
  
He opted to wait for Liam to become a bit more lucid and be able to answer him. He put the herbs away and leaned over Liam on the bed. He put the blanket around him and touched his forehead.  
  
"Gods, Liam," he said when he felt how hot he was getting.  
  
"Jones! Get yer ass over 'ere _now_!"  
  
Killian twitched as he picked up a rag. He had to get it wet with cold water and let it rest on Liam's forehead, but he wondered if his captain would direct his ire on Liam instead, if Killian was slow to get back to work.  
  
He didn't really care about himself; he only wanted to make sure Liam wouldn't get the brunt of his incompetence.

* * *

He'd managed to drag the recipe out of Liam's mouth and feed him the soup – which only smelt as horribly as it tasted – and stayed at his side as Liam slept restlessly.  
  
Killian was no less anxious. He remembered, from years ago, once when Liam was sick at home. Father had brought fresh meat that day, insisting they all eat to keep themselves strong and avoid getting sick.  
  
Killian had been too young to understand on his own; he'd only wanted to play with his brother, and Mama had had to explain to him everything.  
  
He wondered why she hadn't explain anything to them about her own illness. Why she hadn't prepared them at all...  
  
Though he couldn't blame her. He loved her too much, and he knew she'd loved them both. Even his bastard of a father too.  
  
Even he knew he still missed him, even if he hated himself for it. He deserved better. Liam deserved better.  
  
But he couldn't help himself. He dragged his feet up to rest on the chair and he wrapped his arms around his legs. He closed his eyes.  
  
For a moment, he allowed himself to go back there. To imagine the rocking of the ship was him sitting on their old rocking chair. The muddy scent was leftover after a storm, and Mama would gather them and they'd all clean the stench away. Liam's heavy breaths were Father's light snores, barely heard above Mama's whispers of stories exotic and new.  
  
The tears running down his cheeks were only from laughter and happiness, and Mama would wipe them away with gentle fingers. She'd kiss his forehead and wish him goodnight as he fell asleep in her arms.  
  
Keeping his eyes closed, Killian wrapped his arms tighter around him and gave in to his sobs.


End file.
